Anabasis
by Nifty Kitten
Summary: A young man grows up, finding out that he is not the sort of person he had believed himself to be. In the process, he learns about the people around him and about humanity in general.
1. Feels Like Home

**Feels Like Home**

_If you knew how lonely my life has been  
And how long I've been so alone  
If you knew how I wanted someone to come along  
And change my life the way you've done._  
--"Feels Like Home", Chantal Kreviazuk

_Friendship is the hardest thing in the world   
to explain. It's not something you learn in school.   
But if you haven't learned the meaning of friendship,   
you really haven't learned anything._  
--Muhammad Ali

I brought you here so that you could recover. So that you could find yourself. I didn't expect to feel so drawn to you. I don't want to speak. I don't want to breathe. This moment...it feels like perfection. As close to heaven as I'll ever be. Closer to heaven than I deserve. It feels like peace. 

I've tried for so long to distance myself from you and the others while maintaining some sort of human contact. I knew that I was risking losing the oh-so-fragile control I have over myself, but I thought I could handle it. I thought it was worth the risk. I thought it would keep me sane. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up, though. I want to let you in. 

You look at me sometimes like you know exactly what I'm thinking. Like you can see right through my controlled, emotionless facade, through all the walls I've built, and into _me_. It frightens me at the same time that it fills me with joy and relief. 

You don't know me. You know that I am a pilot, like you, but you don't know me. You know that I am from the colonies, like you, but you don't know which one. You knw that I hide among the circus freaks, but you don't know why. You know that I wear a mask, but you don't know what it means to me. You don't know how I grew up or how many people I've killed. 

I pray you never do. 

I don't know anything about you. I know that you are a pilot, like me. I know that you are from the colonies, like me. I know that you feel lost and defeated, when we've only just begun, like me. I know that you pilot Shenlong. I know that you are from L-5. I know that you have stood face-to-face with the leader of OZ. I don't know anything about you.

But I want to. 


	2. Japan

**Japan**

_I said, "Young man, I know where you're going  
And, young man, I know where you've been  
For I've been in this land for a lifetime, it seems  
And I'm never to come back again  
No, I'm never to come back again_  
--"Japan", Vertical Horizon

_Wars have never hurt anybody   
except the people who die._  
--Salvador Dali

He's dead as far as the rest of the world knows. it's for the best. He wishes it were reality, though, and that's a sentiment I can sympathize with. Death doesn't seem like much of a solution to me, anymore, though. Not after having seen him survive. He didn't mean to inspire me, I know, but he did. Watching him survive what should have killed him has made me realize that, while eventual death is certain, I cannot count on suicide to actually kill me and end my troubles. 

When he finally decided to live again - and not merely survive - I realized something else: I am not alone. I am not the only one of us without a past, without a name, without a childhood and a home and a family to return to. I am not alone. 

Follow your emotions, he tells me, with a look in his eyes that tells me he knows I've been hiding. He knows that I've been burying everything deep down within myself in a vain effort to forget what little I remember of who I used to be, of who I fear I still am, of who I am terrified to become. 

He is lost and he is searching for the way back home, but there is no home to return to. Catherine tells me that I am home when I am with her. I let her try to believe that, but we both know it isn't true. 

He sought redemption. He sought out each and every person he hurt through his mistake. He sought out their forgiveness. He sought out death by their hands. He sought redemption and the lack of it is eating him alive.

I asked a lot of questions during my time with him. I learned a lot about his past, about the way he thinks. I didn't talk much during my time with him. Nothing I could have said seemed very important.


	3. Bulletproof

**Bulletproof**

_You can't hurt me  
Not while I'm here in my little room  
There's nothing here but scenery  
And a lovely ocean view_  
--"Bulletproof", The Nields

_That which does not kill us makes us stronger._  
--Friedrich Nietzsche, _Thus Spake Zarathusra_

I keep telling myself that as long as I don't feel anything, no one can hurt me. It's an idea that keeps me sane...or as close to sane as I'll ever be again. Maybe as close to sane as I ever was. 

I distance myself from the other pilots as much as I can. No. That's not true. I keep putting myself into contact with them, telling myself that I'm only testing my barriers. It's a lie. I lie to myself to preserve the bigger lie that I am okay. 

The first tried so hard to be my friend. He was so sweet and innocent, despite the things he does to defend the colonies. Or maybe because of them. 

The next came to find peace and gave it to me instead. He spoke of honour and duty, giving me much to think on when he left after only a few short hours. 

The third sought to heal and to die all at once. A contradiction in terms, he was both a confused young man and the perfect terrorist. 

Terrorist. That's what we are. Terrorists. This is not a war. This is not a rebellion. This is five young men attacking an army to make a point. 

I used to be a mercenary. A killer for hire. Is this any different? 

I kill people. People with mothers and fathers. People with sisters and brothers. People with friends and lovers. People with so many things I've never had. I kill them. People. I kill _people_. 

I used to have nightmares about my childhood. If you could call it a childhood. Nightmares about killing for the first time. Nightmares about watching a man die slowly and painfully because I couldn't pull the trigger and end it. Nightmares about tall men coming to me in the darkness. Nightmares about screaming for them to stop, only to have them take advantage of my open mouth. 

I don't sleep much any more. 

I keep telling myself that as long as I don't feel anything, no one can hurt me. Sometimes I even believe it.


	4. Worthy

**Worthy**

_Which of us is deserving?  
Look at the human race -   
The whole planet - at arms-length.  
We don't deserve this place._  
--"Worthy", Ani DiFranco

_Yes, we love peace, but we are not willing   
to take wounds for it, as we are for war._  
--John Andrew Holmes, _Wisdom in Small Doses_

You said that you don't deserve to fight, that you are no longer worthy of the honor. You weren't talking to me when you said it, not really, but you really made me think. 

I've never thought about it that way before. I've always believed that fighting this war was something that needed to be done and it might as well be done by me. I've got nothing to lose. I've never felt honored to be doing this. I've just assumed that it's fate and I'm along for the ride. 

Is there really honor in this war? Is there really honor in any war? Perhaps you are honorable, with your pure heart and your clear vision of morality. Perhaps Treize Kushrenada, too, who believes in his cause so wholeheartedly that he was willing to risk his own death rather than be party to the corruption that has overtaken his government. 

I know that I am not honorable. I don't claim to be. I'm a killer. I'm not proud of it, but that's the way things are. I can see the strength and determination in your eyes. I wonder what you see in mine. Catherine sees that I'm just waiting for my turn to die. Do you? I hope not. I don't want you to see what's in me. 

I envy you your sense of purpose. I am not here for honor and duty. I am not here for vengeance. I am not here because someone told me to come. I am not here because someone told me to stay away. I am here for death. 

Where is the honor in that? Where is the honor in fighting just because someone told you to? Where is the honor in fighting out of sheer rebelliousness? Where is the honor in war? 

Perhaps there is honor in avenging those long dead. Perhaps there is honor in standing up for what you believe. Perhaps there is honor in protecting the weak. 

But where is the honor in death? 


	5. Soon It's Gonna Rain

**Soon It's Gonna Rain**

_Feel how the wind begins to whisper.  
See how the leaves go streaming by.  
Smell how the velvet rain is falling,  
Out where the fields are warm and dry._  
--"Soon It's Gonna Rain", The Fantasticks

_He hoped and prayed that there wasn't an afterlife.   
Then he realized there was a contradiction involved here   
and merely hoped that there wasn't an afterlife._  
--Douglas Adams, _Life, the Universe, and Everything_

This won't last. This feeling of contentment and peace. Already, I can feel the urgency of the war sweeping through me. Soon, I won't be able to resist. And then, I will return to the battlefield. Return to my life. I will make the death tolls rise again and hope that it makes a difference - that what I'm doing means something.

The battlefield calls to me and I dream of saving the world. I dream of bringing peace to the innocent and death to the guilty. I dream of being their Judgement. I hope that I am strong enough to see it through and not waver.

Because there is no one else. Because there is no Grand Scheme of Things for my actions to fit into. Because if I am not doing the right thing, I am meaningless. Because there is no God to ask forgiveness of. Because no one else should have to bear this burden, take this risk. Because this everything. 

There are no gods. There are no heavens, no nirvanas. There are no saints and no prophets. No hells and no Houses of Hades. There are no Plans, no Truths, no Ways, no Paths. There is only this. And this is shit. 

But it's all we've got. 

Life has no meaning. Nothing matters. And that's why everything matters. If this is all there is - if there is nothing more, nothing after - then this is everything. Everything we do is all there is. This is the one truth that I allow myself. 

Because nothing really matters, everything does. 


	6. Masters of War

**Masters of War**

_You that never done nothin' but build to destroy.  
You play with my world like it's your little toy.  
You put a gun in my hand, then you hide from my eyes.  
Then you turn and run farther when the fast bullets fly._  
--"Masters of War", Bob Dylan

_True friends stab you in the front._  
--Oscar Wilde

I am ready for this. I knew it was coming - I could feel the pull of inevitable war. I am ready to wear a uniform and hold a gun again. It is safe, because it is not real. I am ready to shed my individuality and become a nameless, faceless soldier once again. It is not real.

My name is not my own anyway, so it is nothing to lose. My face is unrecognizable anyway, so it is nothing to give up. I am ready for this. It is not real.

Every time that I consider the possibility that all of this might be over, a little voice in my head tells me that it will never be over. As long as there is money to hoard and power to seek out and abuse, war will continue. And I am ready to be a part of it again.

I will fight again. Fight for my life and the lives of the innocents. Are there any innocents left in the world? A child seeks to rule the world and children seek to stop her.

I am ready to lose myself in this war, so logn as the loss isn't permanent. I am ready to become a pawn again, so long as I can checkmate my own king. I am ready, so long as it is not real.

They call for me by name. I should have thought of this. I should have given up my identity sooner. They will kill me before I can even begin to fight. This is real.

_Stop!_

Wufei...


	7. One Man Army

**One Man Army**

_Take these plastic people,  
Read their lips, now let it linger.  
Is there anything that'll make them sound sincere?_  
--"One Man Army", Our Lady Peace

_They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,  
We shall remember them._  
--Laurence Binyon, _For the Fallen_

There's a child down the street who plays with army men. You know, those little toy soldiers - the green plastic ones. Some days, I'll sit and watch her for hours. Hundreds of those little green soldiers going to war against one another. I wonder, does she make up reasons for their wars? Do they fight for land, for money, for oil, or - most laughable of all - for peace? Or do they fight meaningless battles on her behalf? 

I watch her shifting them strategically closer to one another. She digs tiny trenches for them to lie in and sets up small M*A*S*H units to heal them when they get wounded. I've seen her bury a soldier that the medics couldn't save. I'm not sure, but I don't think she ever dug him back up to play with again. 

At dusk, when her mother steps outside and tells her it's time to come in, she picks up all the little soldiers and puts them in a box. How does she tell them apart in the morning? When they're all jumbled together, how does she know which side they're on? 

Little men with little guns. So small and immobile. Single-purpose men, they were made for only one reason - war. Soldiers...that's all they are. So realistic, with their tiny fatigues and their tiny faces. They all have the same face. 


	8. Broadway

**Broadway**

_See the young man sitting in the old man's bar,  
Waiting for his turn to die._  
--"Broadway", Goo Goo Dolls

_You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad._  
--Aldous Huxley

Whiskey. Preferably bourbon. Oblivion in a shotglass. It tears away at my tastebuds until I don't know bitter from sweet. It burns my throat going down. Only the first glass, though. Only the first swallow. After that, I'm too numb to notice. The numbness is only habit, though. The alcohol doesn't numb me any more, no matter how much I drink. 

I drink alone. The bartender knows, by now, to leave me be until my glass is empty. The patrons - the regulars, at least - know, too. Occasionally, strangers will come into the bar and approach me, thinking I might want company. It doesn't take them long to figure out how wrong they are. 

The cigarette smoke curls up from my left hand - my right hand is reserved for the shotglass. I take a drag and watch the fire burn bright for a second, then dull again when I take my lips away. When I exhale, the smoke cascades from my mouth, thick and grey-white. It dissipates slowly, merging with the ever-present cloud of smoke that masquerades as air. 

Some nights, I'll go through two or three packs of cigarettes. Inhale. Listen to the sizzle as the paper and tobacco burn. Taste the smoke in my mouth. Exhale. Watch the shadowsnake weave its way through the air. Repeat. This is, of course, interspersed with shots of bourbon. The tastes mingle in my mouth like blood and dust. 

I'm in here six nights a week. On the seventh night, I sleep. Six days of 'preventing' - paperwork and wiretapping. Six nights of oblivion - liquor and tobacco. One full day and night of sleep. It's not much, but it's enough. 

It has to be. 


	9. Colorblind

**Colorblind**

_I am ... fine  
I am covered in skin  
No one gets to come in  
Pull me out from inside  
I am folded, and unfolded, and unfolding_  
--"Colorblind", Counting Crows

_Only solitary men know the full joys of friendship.  
Others have their family; but to a solitary and an exile,  
his friends are everything._  
--Willa Cather, _Shadows on the Rock_, 1931

I have begun to show. My self has begun to bleed over into my life and they have begun to pull away. In fear, in disgust, in annoyance, in lack of understanding. They have begun to pull away. And, again, I am left alone.

Once, I yearned for this - or told myself that I did. Once I believed that solitude would keep me safe, and sane, and contented. Once, I found myself drawing toward people and pulled back. I have forgotten the reasons for these acts. I have forgotten what these times were like, except that I do not want to return to them.

I have begun to open. I have begun to allow people inside and they have not noticed the difference. I have begun to find myself and I do not like what I have seen. I have begun to let go. I have looked into the mirror of their eyes and seen the truth.

I open my eyes and begin to see.

The bar is mahogany and is marred by a thousand scars - burns and scratches and grooves. The barman is old and withered and in his eyes I see a harsh kind of understanding. Behind him, behind the rows of bottles of desperate and bitter solace, hangs a mirror.

I meet my own eyes and flinch at the emptiness in them. I watch myself suck on the filtered end of a cigarette. I watch the smoke roll from between my open lips. I watch myself drink the last of the bourbon from the shotglass. I watch my adam's apple bob as I swallow the alcohol.

I tear my eyes away from the mirror and look down to see that I have crushed my cigarette into the bottom of the shotglass. I watch as the paper soaks up the last few drops of liquid and, for the first time in forever, I breathe.


	10. Take Away My Pain

**Take Away My Pain**

_I was standing by the edge of the water  
I noticed my reflection in the waves  
Then I saw you looking back at me  
And I knew that for a moment_  
--"Take Away My Pain", Dream Theater

When you walked in the door, I knew you were drunk. It wasn't the smell of cheap booze on your breath. It wasn't that you smelled of stale cigarettes. It wasn't even your bloodshot eyes and messy clothes. It was when you said, "No matter how many times I dreamt of killing him, I never once dreamt of what it would mean when he was dead."

You hadn't spoken of him since the incident with his daughter. I knew that it must have bothered you, but I never asked about it because you never seemed as though you were willing to talk.

You sat on the sofa for a while, muttering to yourself and staring at the wall. I leaned against the bookcase and watched you. When you stood and walked down the hallway, I followed you. You stared into the mirror on my bathroom door and I looked, too.

I wasn't sure you knew where you were or who you were with until you said, "Do you ever hate who you are, Trowa? Who you've become?"

"Yes," I whispered, afraid to answer and afraid not to.

"I hate what I've become. I hate what I've done that's made me this way. And yet I don't know what I could have done differently," you said.

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I walked up behind you and bent a little, settling my chin on your shoulder. Staring into the mirror with you, I could see the tension in your face.

I rubbed your upper arms, trying to ease the tension. I thought that if you relaxed, you might be able to sleep off your alcohol-induced depression. You leaned back into me, forcing me to lift my head and shift my weight in order to keep my balance.

I wrapped my arms around you and you leaned your head back against my shoulder, closing your eyes. I thought you were asleep until you whispered, "This feels nice...doesn't it?"

You were so small in my arms. I could almost tuck your head under my chin. "Yes." I barely whispered the word, not wanting to break the spell.

We stood there for what seemed like hours. I don't know how long it was before you sighed and said, "Touch me." Surprised, I pulled you tighter against me.

"No," you said. "_Touch_ me."

I looked into the mirror at your face. Your eyes were still closed and your lips were parted. Your hair was falling out of its ponytail and lay silkily against your cheeks.

I slid my hand across your chest, watching for your reaction. Eyes still closed, your lips turned up at the corners. I continued that way for a while, wondering how far this would go. Wondering if you'd ever open your eyes and look at me.

Smiling, eyes still closed, you whispered, "More." I slid a hand to the waistband of your pants. The button opened easily and the zipper made a metallic grating noise as I pulled on it.

You moaned softly. In anticipation, I suppose. I maneuvered my hand inside the fabric of your pants and discovered that you weren't wearing underwear. Your hands slipped down and grasped my hips. I forgot my questions about your clothing and wrapped my fingers around your cock. You gasped at the sensation.

As long as I'd wanted you, wanted to be with you, I had never expected to get the chance. I'd forgotten that you had been drunk when you came in. I was just happy to be giving you pleasure.

I pulled and rubbed my thumb over your cockhead. It was slick with pre-cum and I realised that you'd been ready for some time. I smeared the liquid around before sliding my hand down to your base again.

You groaned and I pulled again, repeating the motion until your breathing came fast and hard. I watched in the mirror as your face tightened, but your eyes didn't open.

Your hands tightened on my hips and I continued to pull at your cock, hoping to see your eyes open as I brought you to orgasm. Soon, you began to gasp and moan, your hips jerking in time to the pull of my hand. Thick white fluid spurted from your cock and you collapsed against me. I was disappointed. You'd never opened your eyes.

I led you to the bedroom and we slept. When I woke up, you were not there. A note took the place of your head on the pillow.

_I'm sorry,_ it said. _This shouldn't have happened. You have Quatre and I should have remembered that. I hope we can still be friends. I'll call you soon._

It was signed with your name and was written in your handwriting, but I wished for a moment that it had been a forgery. I was upset that, after all this time as my friend, you still believed that I belong to anyone but you.


End file.
